Graves
by I.G. Lepine
Summary: At 5, Chris lost his brother to a horror he could not understand. 24 years later he will realize that there is a grave yet to be filled.
1. Nothing Changes

CHAPTER 1

Snow. Flakes, moths drawn to muddy yellow cones. Light desperately seeking the two lane road before them, never-ending. Wispy white snakes slithered away before the tires of the red compact. Hunched over the steering wheel, Christopher Graves pressed his face as close to the windshield as possible, trying to differentiate snow blanketed path from white chaos. After nearly two hours of continual squinting, he had a headache. Tiny men with tinier pickaxes chipped away at the back of his eyes. Glancing at the in-dash, 8:13PM painfully blazed back.

"8:13, and a forty minute drive turns into a two hour battle for survival." He declared to the tiny men and no one else.

_Why do I put up with this? It's the same thing over and over again. Why? Because_, he told himself, _you can't say no. One day something big will show up and they'll call your name_. _Keep thinking that Chris, and you'll keep making these back-page trips until one day you get more readership in the obituary section!_

At 29, Chris had worked at the Weekly for three years as a junior journalist. As the only junior at the small paper, he was charged with the inglorious responsibility of writing the "Of Interest…" column, located on the very last page of the Weekly, behind the classifieds, comics, recipe of the week and add space. Chris' boss, Dieter P. Bishop, had a superiority complex. After 35 years in the business, Bishop was of the opinion that he could do whatever his shriveled little black heart desired. Unfortunately for Chris, this meant ridicule and unwarranted criticism of every piece of work he produced. Bishop found it particularly agreeable to make Chris' job as miserable as possible. In three years, Chris had not received a single positive response from Dieter concerning anything he had done. On several occasions, other positions had come available, but Dieter turned a blind eye to Chris, regardless of the fact that Chris had more experience than every person that filled the vacancy. More than once he had considered leaving the Weekly, but jobs were nearly impossible to come by, and he was grateful that he even had one.

The _scrape-thud, scrape-thud_ of the windshield wipers as they struggled under the weight of crusted ice, filled the car, numbing Chris to everything around him. The small cellphone on the seat next to him came to life, casting a blue haze through the small interior. Playing a cheery, slightly tropic tune, the cell had the gall to remind him that sunny, south Florida did not in fact lay just outside the car door.

"This is Chris." Flipping open the cell, a high pitched whine assaulted his ear.

"Chris, its Dieter, your boss."

"I know." Chris audibly sighed, swerving left of center to avoid a small glacier of ice that materialized in the headlights.

"Do I sense hostility? You had better be grateful that you have a job, Mr. Graves. Nevertheless, don't screw this up! Do you have the address I left for you?"

"Of course, 52 Greengrove Boulevard in South Cahill. You didn't tell me who I am interviewing. I wasn't able to prepare any notes or do any research." Research was the only part of Chris' job that he took pride in. The travelling was tiresome, the people-of-interest uninteresting, and his boss infuriating. Being one hundred percent prepared, having a complete understanding of his assignment was all he had to look forward to.

"Research is overrated, Graves. I never did an ounce of research in my career and look at me. I'm more successful than people like you could ever imagine. I'm living the life, Chris. But you wouldn't understand what that's like. I'm important, loved and admired by thousands! People want to be just like me. I'm fair, honest and respectable, right Chris?"

"Of course sir, and more." Snow was beginning to stick to the road, forcing him to slow down to twenty five.

"Of course and more. Now listen, I don't think you realize how lucky you are. You are en route to interview the most interesting person I know, besides me of course. My Aunt Lovie. Now I warn you, don't screw this up! My aunt raised me from infancy, after my parents were murdered in a drive-by shooting outside our home. It's a miracle that I didn't die with them. My aunt was good enough to raise me even though she had no children herself. She didn't have much, but she raised me to be what I am today."

"But I thought you were dumped by your parents because they were dru…"

"Stop! They were killed by punks on a high!" Bishop attempted to compose himself. "You are to interview my aunt about me and how I have succeeded through such adversity. I have already called ahead and explained everything to her. So when you get there just shut up and write down everything she says and bring it to me. I will go through your notes and…edit anything that may be…untrue." Bishop spat.

"So why not just interview her on the phone?" Chris hissed in anger as his journey through the white cacophony materialized into pointlessness.

"You and your simple mind wouldn't grasp the importance of this. For this reason, I do the thinking and you do the driving. Now get there and get it done. Mess this up and you'll find an empty desk in the morning." _Click_. The sweet sound of the dead line began to slowly leach the tension out of his bone white grip on the steering wheel.

Through the darkness and snow, a rectangular sign appeared on the side of the road. Chris slowed the car to a sliding stop and wiped at the foggy window with his jacket sleeve. The sign was dented and turned slightly towards the road, sideswiped no doubt by a careless driver. Most of the reflective green sign was crusted with snow and salt, sprayed by a plow many hours prior.

Unbuckling his seatbelt, unlocking his door, Chris got out of his comfort zone and crunched his way around the front of his car. Shielding his face from the sting of ice particles, Chris tried to brush the caked snow away for a better look at the lettering. Stuck solid, the snow would not refuse its death grip. Backing away, snow now covering his head and shoulders, the headlights illuminated the sign. The letter "_S_", a four foot space covered with snow and "_ILL"_ were all that was visible.

"South Cahill" Chris muttered in a plume of smoke quickly blown away like a ghost searching for a new haunt. Shuffling back to the sign looking more like a snowman, Chris hammered below the "_ILL_" with his fist. A chunk of snow to the right silently fell to the ground revealing an arrow pointing right and the number six. Beating on the sign several more times did nothing but remind him that he was not wearing gloves. Hurrying around the front of his car again he entered and cranked up the defrost to HIGH.

The wind whipped against the side of the small car, rocking it slightly. Snow swirled across the window and in front of the lights. The storm howled. Tires spinning, he pulled back onto the interstate.

"Well, at least things can only get better from here." He tried convincing the tiny men behind his eyes.

If he could only believe himself.


	2. Past Debts

Chapter 2

At 11:11PM, Chris couldn't sleep. In blue footie pajama's, he clutched his blanket tightly up to his chin, as this would deter the vampires, zombies or any other creature that nightly made their home in his closet or under his bed. He was a typical five year old boy: bugs, bruises, boogers and baseball. This was like any other night. A cowboy nightlight blazed in the corner behind a pair of boots. His parents, Richard and Jean had pleaded with him for days that the light would protect him from the beasties, but Chris was positive that he could see little red eyes glowing through the wooden slats.

Each morning, Chris awoke in shock that he was not missing an arm, leg or at least his pinkie. His brother, Alex, had a room down the hall. More nights than not, Chris would find himself seeking refuge with his brother. At twelve, Alex was the only one who truly believed Chris' monster problems. Chris idolized Alex and wanted to be just like him, dress like him and do everything that he did.

This night seemed different. Chris couldn't put his finger on it, but something did not seem right. Everything was very quiet, like something bad was going to happen and it was not going to come from under his bed. That day, Chris' Grandma had picked him up from the bus stop and explained that his parents had something to take care of. Grandma had stayed with him throughout the afternoon and evening.

"Where's Alex?" Chris had asked.

"I don't know honey, but I bet he's with your mom and dad. Now finish up, it's time you get ready for bed."

"But it's only 7:45. I usually stay up til 8:30 and I wanna stay up til Alex gets home."

"Not tonight dear, you'll see him in the morning." Grandma had said as she turned her head to look out the family room window at the inky blackness.

That was almost three and a half hours ago and he still had not heard Alex climb the stairs and step on the loose floorboard in front of Chris' door, making its trademark squeal. His parents had returned home at ten and had quickly thanked his grandma for staying the evening and quickly sent her home. After the echo of the front door closing had escaped through the walls and out into the night, not a sigh, creak, squeak or whisper reached Chris' ears.

_Something is wrong, why aren't mom and dad coming up to bed? Why aren't they talking, why isn't the TV on? _He questioned as fear pricked every hair on the back of his neck. A debate battled in his head, as heated as any in Washington. He wanted to go downstairs to see what was wrong. To see if he was wrong. _I bet they're all down there coming up with a surprise party for my birthday! _His optimism was shallow and easily overwhelmed with the fear that a vampire may have sucked them all dry in the living room and was waiting for him.

At some point, sleep won the battle with his racing mind. He dreamt he was floating, not the pressurized floating of water, but the light airy feeling like flying. I light breeze ruffled his thick brown hair and carried to him the faint smell of something smoldering. Everything was a shade of grey. He could not focus his eyes. Silence absolute. He began to panic, twisting and turning in every direction, trying to find something, anything that was real that he could hold on to. A crushing weight assaulted him in an instant. He appeared to be balanced in a haze so thick that he could taste its bitter, choking solidness. Slowly at first, then with terrifying acceleration, blue and red light began pulsating in front of him. Mere pinpricks initially, growing larger, larger. The haze magnified and diffused the light until he was completely encompassed. Whispers in his ears made him jump and turn expecting to find something terrible. There was nothing but blue and red, blue and red. The whispers became louder, more clear until the same phrase repeated itself over and over, louder and louder. _It's all your fault, it's all your fault, you, you, you, you, YOU! _He could feel the breathe of the unseen accusers on his ears. They began to scream. Chris clamped his hands over his ears and closed his eyes as tight as he could silently praying that it would all go away.

Chris sat up with a start, face damp, pajamas soaked with sweat. Glancing quickly at the clock on his bedside table, he saw that it was now 3:24AM. Fingers of blue and red crept in under his door, across the room and up the side of his bed. The blinds on his window were aglow, alternating those same nightmare shades. He pulled back the covers and swung out of bed. Silently he crept to his window and pulled the blinds aside. Three police cars sat at the curb in front of the house, lights raging. One officer, hat removed walked up the cobblestone sidewalk and up the old wraparound porch. Chris sprinted silently in his footie pajamas to his door and eased it open, holding his breath. Peering down the stairs at the back of his parent's heads, the doorbell rang. The officer appeared in the doorway, said something that Chris could not hear, and followed behind them into the family room.

Only faint muttering could be heard, as Chris slowly descended the stairs.

"_NOOOOO_!" His mother wailed, and he almost fell down the last five steps. Sitting on the bottom stair, ear pressed to the wall, the color drained from his face.

"…police dogs found it, I mean him. I am very sorry for your loss." The officer stated.

"Wh, what happened?" Chris' father stuttered through clenched teeth.

"We don't really know sir, but we have everyone working on that at this very moment." He said with as much sympathy as he could muster.

"Well what do you mean you don't know!" He screamed, she cried.

"I don't know how to tell you this Mr. and Mrs. Graves, all we recovered was a torn foot wrapped in this." The officer handed Chris' father a zip lock baggie with a piece of dirty, blood-stained cloth inside. He read aloud the message scrawled across the scrap:

Debts are always repaid

"Monsters!" Chris whispered.


	3. Dirty Snow

Chapter 3

Thirty uneventful minutes passed, when a green fluorescent sign signaling to the right blazed into view. Chris sighed in joyous relief as his battle with Mother Nature was at its end. Road-hugging black trees, soldiers at attention, parted, granting the splitting road entrance to their endless ranks. Slowing to a creep, he squinted through dense snow, attempting to verify that this was in fact his exit. _The guy that hit the last sign did a better job this time_. Chris mused as no road marker loomed in any direction.

Succumbing to assumptions, Chris pulled to the right and exited the interstate. Visibility became clearer as the snowflakes grew in size. The size of cotton balls, they filtered through the night, transforming the storm from chaos to the serenity of a calm Christmas Eve. He accelerated to fifty as the road became visible beneath him. These improvements leaked into him and the prospects of the evening did not seem quite so dire.

_There's no way Bishop's life is interesting enough for the interview to last more than an hour_. He thought. _South Cahill's got to have some joint that's open 24 hours. Maybe Mrs. Graves is working tonight, slaving at a bar, slapping at the hands of too drunk truckers, just waiting for Superman to burst through the front door, pound the bums into the floor and sweep her to his castle far, far away._ He laughed out loud as he knew his "dream girl" at this unnamed bar most likely cursed like a sailor, smelled like a sailor, and oozed nothing of feminine beauty.

Ever since that terrible day, many years ago when his brother was ripped from his life, Chris had changed. Once a boy who made friends easily and in great numbers, a new Chris took his place, one that sat by himself, played by himself and spoke only when absolutely necessary. His parents feared that their only child would slowly slip down the black hole of depression as the months and years passed. Every week through the age of fifteen, he visited a therapist who through great difficulty returned him as close to his joyful self as anyone could hope. Throughout high school and beyond, he had met several "dream girls", but the fear of impending loss kept every one at a distance. Through great difficulty and several trips to the edge of that black hole, he had developed several close friendships, and through these self-inflicted therapies, he discovered that he desired a family, companionship.

Flakes spotted the windshield and where wiped clean. Clear streaks of water tracked their paths up the glass before being wicked away. One large flake struck directly in front of his face, drawing his attention. It stuck, and did not melt. Confusion set in as Chris wondered why it did not mimic its brothers on a slow glide north. It was off-white, dirty. The wipers started their trek and painted a gray smear to the left and back all the way to the right. Wiper fluid quickly erased the morbid artwork. Something was not right, and he knew it. He suddenly realized how incredibly hot he was. Sweat dampened his forehead and neck. Turning down the heat, confusion turned to concern, fear, panic, all in an instant. Dirty gray flakes began to pock the glass. The wipers smeared an impenetrable greasy layer across his field of vision. Pumping the wiper fluid hard, he caught a glimpse of the road before him. The tires of his car fell off the right curb, bouncing him hard off of his seat. Fiercely gripping the wheel he pulled to the left. He plunged across the road, flirting with careening into dark trees. In desperation he heaved the wheel and his body to the right, nearly lying on the passenger seat. The car fishtailed wildly, tires screaming. Regaining control, Chris squinted through gray-black smudges. A dirty sign indicated a steep grade ahead. Thicker muddy flakes assaulted the car and melted into the fluid, blinding him. His body tensed as stiff as a corpse and with two feet he slammed the brake through the floor. Vibrations filled the car and rattled his bones as the locked wheels bounced along loose gravel. Stones pinged and popped off the undercarriage. Reaching the top of the hill, the car began to slide sideways, giving Chris a view of the steep slope out the passenger window. In futility he pumped the brakes as he picked up speed. Faster, faster, flirting with rolling over, a heavy wooden gate materialized across the road. A bright orange sign warned that a bridge was out.

"No, no, NOOOO!" Chris screamed as he curled into a ball against the driver's side door. With an impossible volume, the gate smashed into the car, exploding glass, shrieking metal, squealing tires. The thick wooden beam splintered and gave way as the car continued on, spinning like a top. With one final bone-jarring shriek and impact, the world shuttered to a stop.

Head lolling against the spidered driver side glass, knee jammed into the wheel, the horn blasted a haunting wail into the night. With great effort, he pulled himself into a sitting position. Pain radiated through his body, his head pounded. A fog filled him, reached the edges of his vision and quickly filled in the rest. Clutching his head, consciousness escaped him. Falling backward his head bounced off the window. The fog melted to black.

He jumped and latched onto the armrest and steering wheel, wide-eyed and ghost pale. It was so bright, his eyes burned, they watered. Sitting back against the door, Chris ran through everything that he could remember. _Driving, dirty snow, couldn't see. Sliding out of control, sideways, sign, crashing, nothing._ _Did that really happen_? All the windows were blanketed over with snow. A pale light filtered through signaling the onset of dawn. _But the window blew out, glass hit me_. The window opposite him was intact, sealed tight to the top_. Didn't it?_ Sitting up, he flexed his neck, arms, fingers, legs and feet. Nothing more than soreness. Using the visor mirror, he inspected his face. A quarter-sized strawberry graced his forehead from hitting the window. Pushing the visor out of the way, something caught his attention as the reflection swept down his chin to his chest. Looking down at the white tee-shirt under his zipped up brown leather jacket, a crescent of rusty brown was visible. Unzipping his jacket, he pulled it open. There, staring back at him was a rusty red handprint in the center of his chest. As if the print was transmitting some disease through the cloth, he pulled it away from his skin. _Blood? There's no way, I must be losing it, I hit my head harder than I thought. _The print was no larger than a child's. He placed his hand over it and a sickening feeling washed over him and he quickly drew away. He wiped his hand on the door as if some unseen parasite slithered over it. Raising his head to the window he came face to face with a second handprint. The same size as the one on his chest, this one was not made of blood, but was imprinted into the snow.

"What is this?" Chris questioned as he tentatively placed his hand to the glass. Corruption did not assault him this time. He quickly removed his hand in surprise nevertheless. The surface was slightly warm to the touch. Confused, he touched it again with both hands. "But the snow…dirty snow." He whispered. Turning the key in the ignition to turn on the wipers, the battery did not respond.

Chris opened the door an inch and peered out. Pushing it the rest of the way open with his foot, he swung out and froze. A fog had fallen over the land. He could see no further than the end of the bridge forty yards away. Occasional flakes lazily drifted down from the featureless gray to land silently on a thin coating that covered everything. Feeling slightly weak-kneed from shock he put his right hand on the roof of his once red compact. Pulling his hand away, he brought it to his nose. A bitter, smokiness struck him.

"Ashes." Turning, he looked back from where he had come. Two feet behind the rear bumper the road dropped off. Concrete ended in ragged edges. He crept to the edge with one hand on the car and peered over into a gray abyss. Vertigo struck him so forcefully it nearly lifted him off of his feet. Backing away, he picked up a rock and threw it as hard as he could into the fog. No sound returned. Turning away, he reached for a second stone next to the driver's side door and realized it sat next to a small shoeless print in the ash. Looking up, the prints had approached the car from the other side of the bridge. A strange, disheartening thought entered his mind which he voiced into the muffling silence.

"There aren't any prints leaving the car…"


	4. Visions of the Past

Chapter 4

Chris shook his head, rubbed his eyes and tried to will the impossible away. He was a rational person. There was always an explanation for everything. He circled the car and wiped away the film of ash from the passenger side rear window, expecting to see the face of his unknown visitor staring back. The back seat was empty. Removing his jacket, he tossed it into the front. Returning to the footprints, he slowly followed them across the bridge. For twenty yards they led down the middle of the road where they abruptly stopped. Another small set of bare footprints led to the left, straight towards the three foot concrete wall that protected motorists from plunging over the side. A sick feeling began to pull at his stomach and then grip it like a vise. He approached the wall where the tracks stopped side by side. Small hand prints gripped the wall and two small footprints were imprinted between them, where this nameless, faceless _"child"_, Chris thought, had climbed up.

Everything within him screamed to stay away from the edge. Every bit of common sense told him to walk away. His hands were on the wall. Peering over the edge, inky black water gently rippled. Looking out to where the water melted into the fog, it was an impenetrable black veil. He lowered his gaze to the water directly below him and sharply drew in his breath, pulling away from the wall. Quickly he looked over the edge to make sure his eyes were not playing tricks on him. Slowly drifting under the bridge was a body facedown. The body of a child dressed in a dark blue dress, her arms stretched out over her head. Her dark brown hair floating in a halo around her.

"Hey, HEY!" She did not move, but bobbed up and down, almost out of sight beneath the bridge. "I'm coming!" Chris' scream sounded hollow in the dampening haze. In a panic he sprinted along the remaining ten yards of bridge and crashed through waste high weeds that covered the slope down to the water's edge. He clambered over rocks and large chunks of concrete as he reached the water. With abandon he plunged under the bridge into near darkness.

"Hello! Can you hear me! I'm here!" No response but the faint lapping of water on rocks. He crouched on the edge and squinted for any sign of the girl. Nothing. With total disregard, he waded knee deep into the river. Chris blindly groped the water around him, breathing hard with panic. His fingers brushed fabric and he jumped with surprise. Reaching again he grabbed two fistfuls of the cloth and pulled with all his might. Backpedalling, he emerged from under the bridge and fell onto the shore. Looking down, a large chunk of driftwood lay at his feet. A torn piece of cloth was snagged around it.

"No, that's not possible. I saw her, I saw her. She was there." Gasping, he leaned back on his elbows and closed his eyes. Slowly, a pressure in his chest grew, as if someone was pushing their thumb into him, then their fist. Spidery-black veins began to grow from around the handprint on his tee-shirt, reaching to encompass him. An intense fire began to burn with him and he rolled into the fetal position.

"Yaaaah!" He wailed as he was being consumed. The edges of his vision blurred and he rolled to his back staring at the fog shrouded sky.

"Noooo! Ahhhhh!" A high pitched scream shook him from his stupor. Sitting up, everything still looked fuzzy, and the world took on brown tones, the fog was gone. "Stop! Stop! Noooo!" The screams were louder. Chris stood on the edge of the water looking up and down the bank, but no one was in view. A scuffling from the bridge above him drew his attention. Two teenagers, a boy and a girl came into view. The girl looked concerned, almost frightened. The boy had rage in his eyes. In his arms, a girl of eight or nine squirmed futilely. She wore a dark blue dress; her dark brown hair flew wildly. The girl in blue was wild with terror.

"Hey you two!" Chris yelled up, "Let go of her now!" They ignored him and began quickly talking to themselves. "They can't hear me, what is this?" he said as he desperately looked around himself.

"Do we really have to do this?" The teen girl asked with her hand on her forehead.

"Of course!" The boy spat as he clasped his hand over the girl in blue's mouth, muffling her screams. "What do you think we should do? She knows. No one can know. So this is it. It's either her or us, and it's not gonna be us! Is it? IS IT?" he screamed.

Chris turned to run up the slope to the bridge when scraping and screaming erupted from above. Looking up, he saw the boy lift the girl in a bear hug up onto the cement wall.

"Oh my Go..!" Chris cried as the boy kicked the girl in blue off the edge. Her screaming abruptly ended as she landed with a sickening thud face down in four inches of water. Chris put his hands on his head in shock and looked up at the teens. The girl's hand had moved from her forehead to her mouth, and the boy was leaning over the wall. Grabbing the girl by the forearm, he yanked her out of sight. Footfalls quickly faded away. Looking back at the corpse, he thought he would be sick. Dropping to his knees, those spidery veins began to recede back into the handprint, bringing with it an intense, icy grip on his heart. He rolled into a ball and grimaced as his vision slowly transitioned and fog retook its rightful place.

He stood up with a start, half expecting to see that lifeless body floating before him. All that remained was a piece of driftwood and a swath of blue cloth. Slightly dizzy, he made his way back up to the bridge.

"I've got to tell somebody about this." He whispered. Looking back across the bridge to his car, he saw no reason to return. The road led into the fog, surrounded by dense trees and curved out of sight. Chris broke into a jog along the berm, attempting to put as much distance between himself and the nightmare behind him. The road seemed to be endlessly materializing. He was about to reconsider his route when something large and a darker shade of gray began to come into view. On the left side of the road, mounted on two large round wooden posts, a large sign appeared. Large, pitted and rusted hooded lamps secured to the top once illuminated it. The sign was once beautiful, with a hand-painted boarder and printing. Now it was chipped and weather worn. The writing, though aged was clear. What once was cheerful and warm, now exuded a cold malignancy.

"Welcome to Silent Hill"


End file.
